


Tales Aus Rosen

by GuiltyRed



Series: The Cross of Changes Arc [7]
Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Explicit Sex, M/M, Squick, Torture, Voyeurism, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyRed/pseuds/GuiltyRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short horror stories based on the Rosenkreuz facility. Follows "Whom Gods Destroy" from the Cross of Changes Arc closely. To get familiar with the characters, I recommend reading that story in the arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Measure of Shelton Grant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the measure of a man? What if that man were a dog of Rosenkreuz? Would he be worth less or more? How will he measure when held up to the yardstick and under the microscopic lens of the worst individual imaginable? Warnings: general uneasiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aus Rosen – Tales from Within the Haunted House
> 
> Welcome to the dark and twisted garden that is Rosenkreuz. Here, dreams wither and die under the tender ministrations of men such as Erich Sonndheim. No place is safe, no mind is safe. From the moment you enter until the moment you leave you belong to Rosenkreuz.
> 
> You say you're only here to visit? Oh, so sorry, but we seem to have lost your passport…
> 
> Do make yourself comfortable. This…might take a while…
> 
> The stories you will find under this title will not be cheerful ones. Any humor is purely accidental or of the gallows variety, and there may be NC17, noncon, underage, kink, or any other variety of sexual perversion that may leave you distinctly uncomfortable.
> 
> Don't worry, I'm sure we'll find your passport soon enough.
> 
> Meanwhile, why don't you sit back and sample this first offering, a mild-mannered tale of two men locked in a very unusual sort of combat…
> 
> Warnings: None, for now (get you hooked, reel you in…)

“I know who sent you. You can tell him I’m not interested.”

The boy glared at me as though expecting some other reaction.

I gave none. “Dismissed.”

Only after the little bastard had left and my door was safely locked did I allow myself to slump down in a chair, clutching my head against a growing pain. He had certainly outdone himself this time, sending a hand-picked protégé of his to test my resolve. Any other man would surely have given over, but I am not just any man. I have always held my self respect in highest regard, and I refused to abandon it even for Esset. I always shall.

No matter that he has guessed correctly that I would find the boy pleasantly attractive, that my preferences do indeed run toward my own kind. He did not anticipate my strength of will for being “only” a lesser telekinetic, and so underestimated everything about me. Though now he will know he has erred, and that…could be a problem.

“Blast!” I snarled the word aloud, not caring that the suite is bugged. I had decided early on that I should act as though I were not aware of this, in spite of the constant whisper of charged wires over my head. They hum and murmur, carrying secrets away to our master’s realm, and by proxy to the hands of his masters as well. Today I could barely care less about it; the headache that had begun the moment that boy had come to my door had now swelled to magnificent proportions. I had to stop myself from laughing at the thought that my “benefactor” surely had intended my “other head” to be the one in such condition.

Stumbling toward my medicine cabinet, I debated just what I should take for this. No doubt I would soon have another visitor, and if not today, tomorrow, then. He had sent his spies to no avail, and I could not imagine him simply giving up. Sooner or later he will come to me in person, and then we shall talk.

But on my terms.

As I set the headache tablets on my tongue, I heard a firm knock upon my door. Shaking my head, I swallowed down enough water to send the pills on their way, then returned to my sitting room. Between myself and the door stood the courtesy bar, granted to me in the event I should ever entertain officers of rank. I helped myself to a draught of whiskey, bearing firmly in mind that such is an ages-old medicinal spirit useful for migraines. Whether or not this were true, and whether or not I actually subscribed to such belief, did not matter, only that I must keep it firmly in mind as both true and believed.

I answered the door. “Guten Tag, Herr Sonndheim.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Grant,” my visitor replied in a harsh rasp. His sarcasm at choice of language did not escape me. Clearly he had not had a pleasant day either. “May I come in?”

“Certainly.” I stepped aside and allowed him into my home, closing the door quietly behind him. In the absence of clear intention from my guest, I decided to play the host’s role. “Would you care for a drink, sir?”

“Schnapps. And a refill for yourself,” Sonndheim murmured, watching me closely.

Whereas another man might have flinched at the combined observation and accusation, I merely smiled. “Thank you for joining me. I do not prefer to drink alone.”

“And the solemn occasion for your indulgence?” he asked, one eyebrow barely raised.

“Migraine. Recurring,” I stated, offering him his drink and taking up my own glass. As I explained the medicinal uses of whiskey, I held that litany firmly in my mind and forced a smile in spite of the pain.

Then, to my amazement, Sonndheim actually scowled. Not that this, in itself, was unusual for the man, but that he would allow me to see his reaction almost startled me out of my shielding.

He saw the slip, and smiled.

I saw that he noticed. I bowed my head, acceding the point. “And now, sir, shall we talk as gentlemen?”

The smile grew wider, and almost, almost reached his frosty eyes. “I see that you are a very direct man, Mr. Grant. Very disciplined. Very focused. These are good qualities in a teacher.”

“Thank you.” I sipped my whiskey, firmly aware of the warmth stealing through my limbs and denying it any further purchase. My shields were now as thick styrofoam: spongy, porous, and yet quite difficult to penetrate. Even Herr Sonndheim would be stymied by them.

And we both knew this.

“What are your goals, Mr. Grant? Within Esset?” Sonndheim watched me with those piercing eyes, like a hawk that has seen the mouse dart into the brambles and sit panting just out of reach.

‘Within Esset,’ he had asked. Not ‘within Rosenkreuz.’ How peculiar. “As you know, my primary designation is not a psionic one, though there is still some debate as to the nature of my gift with linguistics,” I began, unsure what direction I should take, or which escape he would be guarding. “It was my understanding that I could best build a career around that, find a way to streamline the absorption of languages for the recruits and consider myself a linguistics specialist.”

“Is that all?”

This question, as well, caught me off guard. “I don’t follow.”

This time, when Sonndheim smiled, the effect reminded me of a troll about to pounce on an unlucky traveler who had picked the wrong place to rest. “Normally an agent gifted with language skills such as you are,” he began, his tone oddly seductive, “would be given Intelligence training and kept safely at Prague. Prague is truly the diamond in Esset’s crown. I should think, given the choice, a wise man would take the diamond and not the coal.”

Now it was my turn to smile, the gracious, confident smile of a man who has stared down worse things than Death. “No, thank you,” I stated, my tone firm and cordial. “I am not in this for riches, or for fame. I merely do my job, and know it is done well. I am not needed in Prague. There I should be one among many, and bored to tears. Here I know that I am needed, and it is here that I shall gladly stay.”

As Herr Sonndheim rose from his seat, he gave it one last try, but we both knew it was only for show. “Esset’s offers do not last forever, Mr. Grant. They have a way of changing favor that is as sudden as it is complete. Do ask yourself whether you have chosen the wise course in staying here.”

I escorted him to the door. “But of course. It wouldn’t do to keep such things unasked, would it? I thank you for your concern, Herr Sonndheim, but I assure you it is unfounded. I am quite content here, where I am needed.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment I wondered whether my shielding had failed me. Then he nodded and said, “Very well, Mr. Grant. I see that we have an understanding. I hope that your choice does not lead you to regrets.”

“All choices lead to regrets, Erich,” I replied, daring to call him by his first name. “Regret for the road not taken, regret for friends lost along the way, regret for time ill spent.”

The man before me sighed and seemed to shrink a little, as though the power of my words had stolen some of his strength. He did not seem to care that I had seen this; he reached for the doorknob without comment.

But as he stepped outside my door, he turned, and smiled, and I knew I had been caught. “Choose your regrets wisely, then, Mr. Grant. Wisdom, after all, does not come cheaply.”

I watched him walk down the hall in that peculiar, stiff gait of his until he passed the third set of ceiling lights. Silently I shut the door, locked it, leaned against it for support.

The play had been set. And now the players knew each other’s faces.

What cost wisdom, in this game?

And who would pay?

My thoughts turned briefly toward Konnie…

Then I turned toward the whiskey bottle to keep my thoughts my own.


	2. To Judge the Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vignette painted in red, a dance if you will. It's the sort of scene many people have whispered about, wondering just what might have happened behind that door. And for every whisper, there is also a prayer of thanksgiving that they did not know first-hand. Warnings: NC17, non-con, torture – in a word, Sonndheim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear, we still haven't found your passport. Not to worry, our waiting room is quite well-stocked. You can find anything here – except your peace of mind.
> 
> And your passport.
> 
> The exit's locked? Why, yes, of course it is. Wouldn't do to have you run off and get lost deeper inside the facility. There's no telling what you might find there, and we can't be held responsible for your safety. Or your sanity. This place is not for the faint of heart.
> 
> Why not relax and take in our next story. There's plenty of coffee – I'm sure you wouldn't want to drop off here; the dreams might be a tad disturbing. For this evening's fare, we have a vignette painted in red, a dance if you will. It's the sort of scene many people have whispered about, wondering just what might have happened behind that door.
> 
> And for every whisper, there is also a prayer of thanksgiving that they did not know first-hand.
> 
> Warnings: NC17, non-con, torture – in a word, Sonndheim.
> 
> Enjoy your stay.

### To Judge the Guilty

  
_Schuldig.  
_  
Ah, I’ve been waiting for _this_ one. It was only a matter of time.

Stripped, shackled to the ceiling bolt. I’m allowing him to stand flat-footed for now. I can always tighten the chains later.

“You will pay attention and learn from this, boy. I don’t want to hear you scream. Silence, boy. No sound, from here” I touch the rod to his lips “or here” then to his temple. I do not give him the luxury of a gag.

The first strike is to his lower back, knocks the wind out of him. Makes his eyes fly open in surprise and pain, but he makes no sound. Good.

Again.

Then to his belly. He snarls, but it is a silent grimace. His shields are fraying, though. I can hear his cursing. But so far, no screams.

Excellent.

I retire the rod and take up the crop – slender, whiplike. It will sting where the rod had only numbed. This should prove the breaking point, if he has one.

I stripe his buttocks and thighs, one, two, three, four – rapid strokes, giving him no time to think. He gasps, and there are tears flowing down his face. Astounding – it’s as though he is swallowing the sound and turning it into water.

Beautiful, in spite of his defect. And, in its odd way, the russet hair is beginning to seem almost appropriate for him. I tell him this.

“It’s a pity you should have red hair, boy. I know at one time we considered shaving it off, or dyeing it. But it does seem to become you. At least this way I can tell you apart from the others.”

He remains silent except for the little gasping sobs. The cursing has stopped, replaced with a softly repetitive pleading – but still no screams.

I reach around him and down, grasping his penis. It’s no surprise to find it warm and heavy in my grip; a squeeze and a tug, and it begins to stiffen. The boy moans, bites his lip. But a moan is not a scream; I continue to reward him with my hand. The mix of pain and delight brings him into my domain, and I can sense his confusion. _Is it done? Am I safe? Will he let me live today?_ Ah, dear boy, such questions.

His skin is flushed, striped with crimson. His face, wet with tears.

And I am hard.

I fumble at my trousers, take myself in hand as I regard my artwork in flesh. The damning fox-red hair spills down his back, matted with sweat and forging its own pattern. His shoulders struggle with his breathing; his arms must be cramping by now. And his legs tremble with that desperate vibrato that signals imminent collapse.

When I begin to position myself, he spreads his feet further apart for me. I smile; it’s always nice to find one that has been well trained. I enter dry, and he almost breaks silence; he chokes it back and I can imagine the blood on his lip where his teeth have forbidden sound.

Dear God, he’s tighter than I expected. It almost hurts. I grip his slender hips and hold him steady, lifting him so that he must stand on tip-toe and tighten his arms against the chains to hold his balance. His shoulders tense, showing fine, lean muscle. Outrageous ginger hair peeks from under his armpits, rank with painsweat.

My senses reel in the reality of him. I fuck him like a ragdoll, forcing my own body to reach those heights one more time. My hand grips him and strokes firmly; I have to feel his climax, damn it! His shields are gone, his lips are parted and every thrust of mine shakes the air from his body in a soft grunt.

He is so stubborn, just like – oh, but I never managed to taste that one. This boy is too thin, too lean; I imagine a bit more muscle with a delicate layer of fat to soften the contours just the smallest of fractions, a firm body with a permanent seeming of youth. Blond hair, clinging to the sweat.

I feel my body betray me, going soft, and I snarl with fury. I spit in my hand and stroke the boy quickly, hoping that his arousal will renew my own. Fast, it must be fast or it will never happen, not today. There, that’s it – he groans and almost falls against me, his muscles refuse to hold him up and he’s hanging by his arms, his cock throbbing in my hand, his inner heat squeezing me as he struggles not to enjoy this.

And he fails, oh yes, he fails. Now he cries out, but it’s not a scream, just a sound of surrender. In his helpless moment of physical release, I revel in the emotions pouring off him like steam, and my own climax roars through me with the force of a tidal wave. I bite down on the fair shoulder, imagining blond hair against my cheek, and I wonder if they would taste the same.


	3. The Art of Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your tour guide this evening will be one Shelton Grant. Let's see how he spends his evenings when he has a little leave time to burn, shall we? Poor fellow has quite the busy schedule: the man barely has a few hours to himself between assignments, so try not to distract him. I'm sure he'll find enough distraction without any help from you. Warnings: explicit sex, voyeurism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we are. See? We can be civilized, with or without your papers. It only took a little effort to secure you a day pass. I'm sure we'll have things all sorted out by the time you get back.
> 
> You will, of course, come back. Our drivers are very loyal, and quite observant. No telling what stories they might have. Wouldn't want those stories to be about you, now would we?
> 
> Do enjoy your evening. There are many diversions available, all within easy driving distance. Of course, you might be a little weary after your excursion. That only means you spent your time well, doesn't it? Be cautious in those alleyway bars, should you feel so adventurous as to wander into one. Anything can happen, and you can never be certain who might be watching.
> 
> Your tour guide this evening will be one Shelton Grant. Let's see how he spends his evenings when he has a little leave time to burn, shall we? Poor fellow has quite the busy schedule: the man barely has a few hours to himself between assignments, so try not to distract him.
> 
> I'm sure he'll find enough distraction without any help from you.
> 
> Warnings: NC17, explicit sex, voyeurism
> 
> Your cab is waiting.

This place is like any other, in any country I have visited so far. It smells of liquor and leather and sex, no matter whether one stands in the main bar or ventures into the darker halls. It is cheap and anonymous and, for an official of Esset, relatively safe. Few men of my station bother with such tawdry pursuits, when they have free choice of the beautiful youth at their facilities.

My reasons for being here are several and equally unpleasant. In chief, it is because my facility post is at Rosenkreuz, where the meat is tainted by nature. I would rather offer my body to a complete stranger here, in the lurid back rooms at a Berlin bar, than risk trusting anyone in that hell-hole enough to be even partially undressed in their presence.

Furthermore, women are not an option for me. Tempting though I find them, I learned long ago that dalliances are all arranged in Esset, and even a humble whore might find her life destroyed by a night of passion with an incautious agent.

Crossing the threshold from pub to playground, I pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light here. Everything is delightfully blurry, as I never wear my spectacles to these sort of places. It wouldn’t do to lose or scratch them and have no good explanation, so I leave them in my car. They symbolize my daytime.

The smell here symbolizes my night.

Leather-clad men, denim-clad boys, tourists in business suits – all are welcome, so long as they play by the rules. No names – not real ones, anyway; no protection; no promises. It seemed foolish to me once to risk my health here, but then the reality struck me at the throat: if I were important enough to Esset, my health would be assured by some arcane means. If I were not, sexual diseases would be the least of my concerns.

I turn the corner and stop as though running into an invisible wall. Hauling my wits into place I dart back and hope the shadows hide me.

Konnor – no, this one’s name is Rudi, standing among a small crowd of kneeling men. He is naked, at least what I see of him, and that is nearly all there is to see: one hand is caressing his chest and belly, while the other...

I should leave. I should leave right now, damn and blast it all! More to the point, he should not be here, not tonight! He never ventured to the bars during the week, unless – oh bloody hell.

I realize I am staring, leaning precariously out from my hiding space. I cannot look away. He is mesmerising in his lust, and I am enthralled against my better judgment.

He is pleasuring himself for their entertainment, a fine sheen of sweat glistens upon his skin. His eyes are closed, his mouth open; his chest heaves with his breathing. Konnie – Rudi – whatever his name is here, he strokes casually, teasing himself, teasing his audience.

I swallow hard, blink against a trickle of sweat that sticks to my eyelashes.

Rudi – Konnie – my friend keeps the watching men at arm’s length, not allowing them to touch, though I know he wants them to. How could he not? One hand extended as a barrier to their advances, his other glides over his cock, coaxing the foreskin back and forth across the head with maddening slowness.

Even without my glasses I can see the tendons and veins standing out in his arm as he pumps himself, the whole of him gleaming pale bronze in the sweat-stained light.

The forbidding hand drops slowly to cup his balls, and the men at his feet surge closer, hands and tongues seeking the benediction of his sweat. Some are stroking themselves; my own body trembles with need, but I remain motionless, unable to look away, unable to move at all.

Hands glide up his legs, tracing the muscles, making him gasp in anticipation before fingertips collide with his own, caressing his balls, stroking his length. My own hand finally drifts downward and I give myself a reassuring squeeze through my trousers. I have never before seen such a thing of erotic beauty, and I am not about to break the spell; besides, at this rate, I shall not need much contact to carry off. Just the sight of them, of him, beautiful Konrad, naked and wanting, and I am lost. Without conscious thought, I begin massaging myself in earnest.

Rudi’s audience are worshipping him, save one; I watch from my place in hiding as the men caress and lick him. My eyes drift from his cock to his face: I can tell by his reaction that someone has taken him into their mouth, for his head falls back and his mouth opens further in an unheard gasp.

I gasp with him.

He spreads his legs further apart, allowing the men full access. One hand darts between and up, and this time I hear him groan, his eyes tight shut and his hand flying over his cock as the lucky sod works a finger into his arse.

Other hands and tongues get in the way now, blocking my view of his stroking. But I can see his arm quite clearly, and I stare at that arm, his muscles bunching and flexing as he pumps himself faster, feeding the hungry mouth that hides his cock from my sight.

My own breathing comes in time with his movements. I wipe sweat from my eyes again; my hand is shaking.

Rudi’s face is a mask of intensity and sex and then – everything stops.

I watch him come. His eyes are closed; I can only imagine what he might be seeing behind those lids. His jaw is clenched, his lips softly parted; I can only imagine what his mouth might taste like. He is milking his climax, drawing it out, taking every sensation that he can wring from his mortal form, and he is beautiful.

As from a great distance I become aware of myself, hand clutching my throbbing member as it spends itself in my trousers. I lean against the wall, head back, lips parted, eyes closed.

What I see behind my closed lids, I shall lock away deep in my memory. It is all I can do, for both our sakes.

No names.

No protection.

No promises.


	4. Of Frying Pans and Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A taste of obsession, seasoned over a virgin flame. Don't bother saying "I told you so"; Konrad won't be listening.No warnings, except for the one who won't hear them anyway. His path has been set for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here? This is getting to be a bit of a habit, isn't it?
> 
> Nothing wrong with that, just ask Konrad Schoenberg: habits can be quite comforting, especially when they keep you insulated from those who might cause problems. He's had quite a bit of that lately, what with his job demands and all. You see, he's taken to distancing himself quite neatly from the students for his own safety. It seems that some of them had, shall we say, dangerous allies. This led to a rather frosty demeanor on the part of our dear General.
> 
> Of course, frost cannot withstand fire. One false move and the future changed forever, though I suspect no one ever saw this coming. Least of all the two souls most directly affected by it.
> 
> A taste of obsession, seasoned over a virgin flame.
> 
> Don't bother saying "I told you so"; Konrad won't be listening.
> 
> No warnings, except for the one who won't hear them anyway. His path has been set for a very long time.

**Of Frying Pans and Fires**

Pride has put me here.

There is no denying it, everything that I am and shall be has been shaped by pride, my own and that of other ambitious men. When I was a boy, I could have changed things, I am sure of it.

This is what I tell myself so that I may sleep at night.

Ah, Shelley. What are we doing here? Rosenkreuz is a prison, an asylum, where the guards themselves are eventually eaten either by the inmates or by each other. You at least deserved better. Then again, you do have travel assignments that take you away from here, though they always send you back when you are done.

For one reckless moment, I considered you. I truly did. That insane moment when we both stared at one another in shock and very nearly killed each other before either of us could speak. That honest moment, when we each discovered the other’s most dangerous secret. Your eyes said, “How handsome!” just before they screamed panic in recognition, before they glowed with knowledge of your advantage over me.

For that moment alone, I considered you. My heart leaped to my throat as I realized you were really there, that you had surely come for the very same reason as I, and that made us…what? Then reality gripped me with icy claws, reminding me without pity that you and I were Esset.

More than that, we were Rosenkreuz. That’s not the sort of thing one can shed and leave on a hook in the back room with one’s coat.

The dossier lies limp as my ambition this night, sprawled across my desk. I have tried to ignore it, in spite of the fact that it marked a turning point in my career. My past and all its mistakes lay behind me, and so did any real chance at happiness. I had ceased to be a man, and become another faceless entity in the machinery of this place. I couldn’t say for certain when this had occurred, only that it had, and this fact left me painfully apathetic.

True, I had the dubious honor of being the liaison officer for the recruitment team that had found the boy, and my request to have the boy assigned to me directly has been honored. This was all very good for my career within Esset: it wasn’t every day that a suspiciously strong male precognitive made himself known to us, and this boy had attracted the interest of the Elders themselves.

But he would be living in my home, and I hated that. Just another coarse, self-serving boy who would learn to use my own weakness against me for his own gain. He would learn quickly that I am too easily seduced, whether by his own wiles or the whispered words of another – unsettling how that statement could well be taken either way. I knew that dance, and damned if I was going to play the fool ever again. There were too many eyes upon me, eyes waiting to see me fall; damn them.

I will greet this boy with casual boredom, as befits an unwelcome transient. I will mentor him and prepare him for his role within Esset.

And if he tries to touch me…

 

***

 

Dear God.

I had set my heart against him from the beginning, determined to despise the latest disruption to my life.

He isn’t what I expected. I had expected arrogance, smugness, a thirst for power that the favored of the Elders always seemed to have. He has none of that.

None.

This boy is honest, and kind, and dare I say good. His heart is true, with no malice whatsoever. He trusts me, as much as one can trust a virtual stranger under circumstances such as these. He will make a fine agent one day, perhaps even fulfilling whatever plans the Elders have made for him.

I know all this because…I touched him.

I didn’t mean to, but he’d been crying. Homesick, he’d said. I could tell that he was terrified, who wouldn’t have been? His first walkthrough of the facility and we’d run right into Sonndheim himself as though he’d been waiting for us.

Erich is already watching him.

And Bradley was crying.

I wanted to give him comfort, for the first time in my life I’d wanted to give someone comfort, and I touched his face. The fool I, touching his face without my gloves! The sense of him poured into me, and I knew: this boy is different. He is not of the same stock as the vile and vicious little bastards that occupy the barracks. He has it in him to become a man of true character, strong and honorable in spite of us. Surely this can only please the Elders? It should make him stable, and sane, and – dear God, it makes him human.

Does loving him make me human as well?

Shelley, tell me – what have I done?

I ask you this because God will not answer, and I desperately need to know.


	5. Love Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the shape of madness? Is it singular, or singularity? One man's private hell, or something more sublime: a warped reality that pulls the unwary into its swirling gravity before they realize they've been caught? I suspect the latter, in which case I think it is safe to say that by this time, before the end of the anime canon, at least one of those involved has slid well past the event horizon. The only question that remains is, are both of these particular men trapped in the madness, or is one still on the outside, watching the destruction rage but unable to stop it? Warnings: non-con

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May as well make yourself at home. I think you already know that we won't be finding your travel documents any time soon.
> 
> But rest assured, you have the best seat in the house. And you don't even have to pay for the show.
> 
> Tonight's offering is a view of the bottom of the oubliette that is the soul of Konrad Schoenberg. Unfortunately, he isn't alone there.
> 
> What is the shape of madness? Is it singular, or singularity? One man's private hell, or something more sublime: a warped reality that pulls the unwary into its swirling gravity before they realize they've been caught? I suspect the latter, in which case I think it is safe to say that by this time, just before a certain Brad Crawford has made his final break with Esset, at least one of those involved has slid well past the event horizon.
> 
> The only question that remains is, are both of these particular men trapped in the madness, or is one still on the outside, watching the destruction rage but unable to stop it?
> 
> Warnings: NC17, non-con
> 
> Now, down you go…

**Love Letter**

 

Bradley.

Once he had looked at me with hope.

Then fear.

Then distrust.

And then he had not looked at me at all.

I regard the cold-faced man before me. Not Bradley – just Brad now. His glasses mirror light, mirror shields: his mind is closed to me.

His heart is closed.

I feel my jaw clench, my molars grind hard enough to hurt. The muscles around my skull take the tension into sympathy, and my head begins to pound. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, pulls all light into a flashing, maddening strobe…

My beloved has been in my company for two days, and now he stands ready to leave. In that time, he has hardly spoken. He has hardly moved. He has reeked of alcohol. And though he has borne my passion in silence, he has worn a stoic mask to do so.

Dead are the eyes of love.

I will _make_ him feel.

First hit: his glasses fly away, leaving his face naked.

Second hit: he stumbles, folds himself to protect his center.

Third hit: I stop counting.

All the words that would not be spoken howl within my breast. _You’re mine! How dare you! Don’t ignore me! Don’t leave me!_

_I need you!_

_I love you!_

_Please…_

I tear my way through his shirt, the buttons snapping free of the thread and sailing across the room. Though burning with pain and shame and anger, his skin is beautiful.

_[“In time, Bradley, you will come to understand. It is not in my nature to be so…forceful, but circumstance demands…”]_

I can feel the strength of him through his skin, the power in him, the passion so very close –

__The passion is not for me. It has never been for me. Though mine is for him alone, binding me to him in a hellish marriage that I cannot escape.

_[“Know that I love you, my diamond. Never forget it. I will always love you, no one can ever change that. No one…”]_

Desire and hatred are so very near in flavor…

_[“Ohhh, no. You know what to do now, so do it. Or do I have to pin you down and choke you with it?”]_

_[“We are more alike than you know…”]_

__Though sated only a short time ago, I take him again, there on the floor, his clothes a shambles around him and his eyes tight shut against his tears.

_[“You are my star, Bradley. My light and my hope. I will see you through this.”]_

Why does he never fight anymore?

Once, just once, if he would only fight back with intent to finish. I care not whether it end in my death or my humiliation, only that…it end. The waiting, the hoping, the wishing.

The lies, that only I believe.

He could physically dominate me now, that is certain. But he does not. He humors my assaults as though biding his time, rather than commit to an exchange of power. And the burning irony of it all: I have made him this way.

_[“I suspect you’ll be taller than me soon enough. Large hands, thick wrists… When you’re done filling out, I think you’ll be a stunning man, Bradley. Handsome, tall, intelligent…” I imagine him strong, and masculine, and desiring me, and I feel faint.]_

He has become everything I imagined he might, save one detail. He has never become mine.

_[His taste is forgiveness on my tongue. I do not want to frighten him this night, and I know I frighten him. More importantly, I wish to pay his passage this time. He came to me for help, and there is always a price… I excuse myself to my bathroom, shut the door, lean back against the wall. I am hard, so very hard, and the taste of him lingers, the scent of him fine and delicate in my nostrils. I unfasten my trousers, breathe in his scent, and lick the remnants of his salt from my lips. My head falls back as I stroke myself, quickly yet sensuously, the way I had touched myself since I was Bradley’s age._

_I have left the light on. I know _he_ will watch, and I have left the light on…]_

Brad – Bradley – lies beneath me, silent accusation.

I gave everything for him.

And he left me for the vultures.

“Dismissed, Herr Crawford.”


End file.
